Your body was a road map,
of all the places I'd never been to,
of all the places I wish I'd remember
and of all the places I wish I'd forget.

Each freckle was a monument.

Your inner arms were my block,
gang sign graffiti and the signature click of marble stones knocking against each other,
nostalgia.

But I could never tend enough gardens or build enough playgrounds to make your chest my home.